Desperate Times
by 0positiv
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures. And one James Moriarty planning your death does qualify as desperate times.


**AN: Ok, so this is a Sherlock/BeingHuman crossover. Please everyone ignore that the time lines of those two shows run completely different then this ^^ this is simply for my amusement. Thx to Conflicted Domino and Lozzie_lo on Twitter this plot bunny buried its teeth in me and would not let go again. It would be helpful, dear reader, if you knew both shows, if you don't, go watch them :P Nothing but the plot and the typos are mine.**

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This may not have been THE most extraordinary day in his long life but it would surely be up there with the top ten. There was that one time with Fergus, two farmhands, a maid and a cow….now THAT had been the weirdest day possible and he rather did not want to think about it too much. But having a private investigator, no sorry a _Consulting Detective_, break into Honolulu Heights right when Tom and Alex had gone out to buy some food was a rather unsettling experience.

They had left him alone in the dark house thinking he'd gone to sleep. But he had merely been unable to look on the filth and dirt around him for much longer. It was like an itch under his skin, seeing the house in such disarray. An itch he couldn't scratch because the dog had tied him to a chair. So it had been a relief when they'd turned out the lights reducing the battle field to vague forms in the shadows. And to have the house for once devoid of their booming voices and mindless mirth was like the sweetest lute music to his ears. Just when Hal had started to relax into the soothing embrace of the early night he had become aware of a noise at one of the windows.

It had been nearly comical seeing that tall man trying to manoeuvre his long limbs through a partially opened window. Trust _The Great Detective_ to choose the one way into the old B & B that would not open properly. It had been only discomfort and hunger that kept Hal from laughing out loud at the spider-like form dusting off his coat and muttering curses under his breath. But all he could really hear, all he could focus on was the blood rushing through the intruder's veins, the heartbeat, too steady and controlled for someone who had just committed a crime, and the smell of raw, young life.

And then that impossible human stepped right up to him and shocked him out of his hungry contemplation of warm red blood by saying: "Ah, there you are, Mr Yorke. I need you to recruit me, tonight, right now would be best actually."

Hal guessed from the man's sarcastic smile that he must for a minute or two have just been staring at him like an imbecile so he closed his mouth, took a deep breath and, with irritation making his voice sharp as a knives edge, answered: "Why in the name of hell would I do that? And who are you to break into my home and bold as brass demand I do your bidding?"

That's when the young man started pacing with a clipped quality to his movements that suggested agitation and a troubled mind. Worry or stress that none the less never made his heart rate rise above a well trained man's 60 beats per minute.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, I'm a consulting detective, the only consulting detective actually, but that is beside the point. You may have read my name in the papers recently, or, more likely your housemates may have read those articles to you since your hands are otherwise engaged." Then, in the middle of his rambling speech, he suddenly stopped by the table, shifted a piece on the chess board, then continued like nothing had happened. He never once looked at Hal though, his gaze restlessly wandering through the moonlit room, drinking in information like a thirsty man would drink down water.

"To come to the point: Someone has been planning my death, very meticulously, very inescapably, I'm afraid. I will have to die, Mr Yorke, and soon, but I have no intention of staying dead. So I began to look into, well, shall we call it alternative forms of life? " Once again he stopped by one of the disgusting heaps of trash, shifted about some things, filled in a blank space in a crossword puzzle Tom had abandoned days ago. For a human, this tightly wound spring of a man seemed to have remarkable night vision, Hal thought.

"And where else to start then with vampires", he continued, turning around sharply, his coat flapping like wings, and stepping up closer to Hal's chair to resume his pacing. "It really is remarkable that humanity is so adamant in its believe that your kind doesn't exist. All those stories from all around the world basically describing the same thing, though with slight variations. Stories going back to ancient times. And so, going though newspaper archives and police reports I uncovered that there is indeed truth behind the legends. And who would have thought that truth would have its claws so deep within our society?

Also there seem to be a rather high number of people who just pop up out of no where, with no identification, no social security number, no birth certificates, or very well made forgeries of those, and who seem to be name sakes of people long dead and gone. And lets not forget about the equally astonishingly high number of people who over the years simply forget to die.

So I did some more digging, asked around among those who really know what's going on in the streets, the homeless, the beggars, the ones who can walk around in the middle of a crowd an yet be completely invisible. And they know everything, you see? They know all about your kind and how best to avoid ending up as your dinner."

The young man fell silent again, really looking at Hal for the first time with an unsettling intensity in his gaze. They just remained like that for what felt like hours but must have only been minutes, taking in the smallest details of each others appearance and behaviour. Hal found more little signs of the detectives nervousness, clearly brought on by the imminent threat to his life, an involuntary clenching of hands clasped behind his back, the tapping of his feet when he wasn't pacing, the way he kept an eye on the door at all times.

Finally Hal broke the silence: "And your sources led you to me? And what exactly made you think I of all people would recruit you? If this thread on your life is so dangerous, why don't you just leave the country?"

The detective nodded. "Good points, but I can not leave because if I run my friends will pay the price for it. And you seemed to be the ideal choice for this….endeavour. You are going through intense blood withdrawal right now, made very clear by the way your eyes always return to my carotid artery, so you clearly are in no fit state to control yourself if you weren't tied to that chair."

With a growing realization of the man's plan Hal watched with dread as the detective pulled out a syringe and needle from his coat pocket. He popped them out of their sterile paper wrapping and assembled them. He put a tourniquet on Hal's arm and with hands as steady as any surgeon's drew blood from the vampire's veins. Then he carefully recapped the needle, pulled it off the syringe and put it back in his pocket.

"Now, if I recall this right, I'll have to swallow it", he asked and without heeding Hal's cry of "Don't!" downed the whole thing, pulling a disgusted face. "Now, if I do this…" the detective continued, pulling out a knife and cutting his arm open, "..and then release you…" He cut through the leather straps binding the vampire to the chair in a few precise motions then dropped the knife and stood back calmly.

Hal, who had felt his teeth lengthen and his eyes go black with hunger at the smell of spilled blood could do nothing but give in to the overwhelming instincts raging in his head, sweeping away all rational thought, all pity and guilt, leaving only hunger and fury behind. With a vision tinged red he pounced on the waiting man, sinking his teeth into the bare throat and finally quenching that hunger that had been driving him crazy for days, loosing himself in the pleasure.

When he came back to himself he looked with horror at what he'd done. With tears in his eyes he tried to stop the blood still sluggishly flowing from Sherlock's neck by pressing his hands against the wound. The detective was barely conscious, breathing heavily, his heart beat fluttering like a bird's. "Damn it, damn you", Hal cursed, biting into his wrist and pressing it to the man's mouth. He couldn't let him die here, risking the lives of all those unknown friends of his, who would be in danger should he disappear. "You clever, bastard…", Hal murmured as Sherlock's heart stopped. "Now how do I explain this to Tom, hm?" the dead man, unsurprisingly, gave no answer.


End file.
